


We'll Be Alright

by WickedNerdAngel



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, COVID-19, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Goofball Jared, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oh and Jensen sings!, Quarantine, Rimming, Sad Jensen, Sad Misha, Supernatural on set, Trump is a piece of shit, Vegas Com Mentioned, director dick, show-ending emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26335642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedNerdAngel/pseuds/WickedNerdAngel
Summary: He fists the trench coat and pulls, his lips meeting Misha's softly. He kisses him once, twice, three times quickly before wrapping him up again, feeling Misha's body collapse into his. "We're gonna be okay, baby. I promise you, we're all gonna be okay."In which Jensen and Misha are trying to hold each other up in the face of the show ending; suddenly have to deal with the fact that a pandemic is rampant, and they may not see each other for a long, long while.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Misha Collins
Comments: 28
Kudos: 111





	We'll Be Alright

**Author's Note:**

> We've all seen the pictures that both Misha (in June) and Jensen (in July, on Jared's birthday) posted of "the last time they were together on set" before the pandemic hit with full force. Someone brought up those pictures again recently, and I was inspired.The beginning of this fic was inspired by the first released trailer - which murdered us all. How did Jensen and Misha cope with such a heavy scene? How did our boys cope with being shut-down mid production with no certain return date? I have it all right here for you, folks! Also, I reference some action that happened in another fic I wrote, "Ruptured," so if you haven't read that, you might check it out first!
> 
> Once again, MASSIVE thanks to my buddy, Chriss for the lovely beta work. I <3 you, my friend. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are my rocket fuel. ;-)
> 
> *Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. No disrespect intended to any person or persons mentioned in this fic.

We'll Be Alright

_By_

_WickedNerdAngel_

_Friday, March 6th 2020_

"CUT!" Speight calls from behind the camera. He pulls off the headphones, hopping out of his director's chair and sashaying around it, reminiscent of his Supernatural character from many years prior. He stops just short of Jensen before turning his head to the side and shouting, "That's a wrap on eighteen, y'all!" The crew hoots, whistles, and applauds as Jensen's chest swells with emotions ranging from pride all the way down to despair. _Only two episodes left to shoot. Only two._ He puts it out of his mind, for now. Rich beams at him. "Holy shit, man, that was phenomenal. Both you guys…" he taps his chest, "got me right in the ticker. Great fucking job." 

"Thanks man," Jensen replies quietly. He reaches down and hugs his friend of fifteen plus years, clapping him on the back, then pushing off him before he collapses in a heap of tears. His eyes immediately shift to Misha, just off to the side, just off camera. This last shot was only of Dean… reacting to what happened to Cas. He watches as crew after crew come up to him, hugging, speaking animatedly, nodding and wiping their faces. Jensen fields everyone too, his body still trembling, faux - and not so faux - tears still drying on his cheeks from the weight of the scene they just filmed, until there's a lull in the excitement, and he's able to break free. 

See, he knows Misha's tells. He's come to notice them over the years. Ones that are subtle but speak volumes. Ones that one notices when one is _close_ to another person. He watches him, fighting back the looming dread that threatens to crush his chest. He watches the emotion flit across Misha's stoic face; he watches as the man trains his features back to gleeful and content, when Jensen knows damn good and well that this part is killing him; he watches Misha's brows rise with each person he encounters, his expression comforting; he watches it fall again, pensive when Misha's alone. When his love has a moment to breathe, he watches his hand rise up to his mouth and swipe across it before immediately moving to the back of his neck. Misha presses his lips together, and his brows furrow.

That's it. That's what he was looking for, but Misha instantly turns, walking briskly off set and into the darkness. _No. Nope. This is not happening._ Jensen's not letting this happen again. He's not letting what happened after their _break-up_ scene happen this time. He bolts after him. 

"Mish!" he calls out once he knows he's out of earshot of everyone else. Misha keeps walking. "Damn it, man, hang on!"

Misha stops, his hands taking purchase on his hips, essentially wrinkling Cas's trench coat; his head falls back for a moment before he rights it, then spins on his heel to face Jensen. "Hey," he says, breathy, tone upbeat (yet totally fake), expression trained again. The man's talented as shit, but Jensen _knows_ him. 

"Don't do that, Mish," Jensen says softly, his own voice betraying his attempt at stoicism. "Not with me."

"Do what?" Misha replies, chin lifted slightly, head starting that defiant shake. "It was a good day, we did well, Rich liked it," he rambles, "we're good, I'm fi--" Jensen dips his chin, eyes boring into Misha's. That's all it takes for his counterpart to drop his hands to his side and heave a long suffering sigh. "I'm not fine," he whispers. His mouth trembles; bluer than blue eyes shine with unshed tears. It rips a hole in Jensen's chest. He reaches the couple feet in front of him and pulls Misha into a crushing hug. 

"I know, babe," he murmurs into the other man's ear. "I'm not either." 

Misha pulls back, fingers wiping roughly at his eyes. "I don't wanna fight, Jens. We're not… gonna fight are we?" His tone and expression are so child-like, the hole in Jensen's chest rips to gaping. He knows Misha's mind is in the same place his own was just moments ago… the fight they had after their last ridiculously heavy scene. 

"Naw, Mish." Jensen chuckles humorlessly. "I think we both know better than that now." Misha nods in response. Jensen continues, "That shit was heavy," he points in the general direction of the studio, "our characters are a part of us. We both know that." 

"It's not just that scene, Jensen."

"I know," comes his quick reply, "I know what else it is, man, we're all feeling it." His voice breaks on that. 

"I just… I don't--"

"Wanna say goodbye," they both say in unison, Jensen nodding as they speak.

Jensen's gutted. "Come're," he whispers, not caring if anyone sees them. He fists the trench coat and pulls, his lips meeting Misha's softly. He kisses him once, twice, three times quickly before wrapping him up again, feeling Misha's body collapse into his. "We're gonna be okay, baby. I promise you, we're all gonna be okay." He hears Misha sniff, feels his head turn on his shoulder, soft lips taking purchase on his exposed neck. Jensen grips him tighter, fighting against the urge to just crumble. "Come on, Mish. We have a whole weekend in Vegas together." 

"Mmmm, good," Misha's voice drops low. Jensen feels the man smile against his neck, and then he feels teeth. 

"Fuck," the Texan whispers. He chuckles, pulling away. "Perve." 

"You like it," Misha growls. 

"Yes, I do." His reply is matter-of-fact because _yes, he fucking does._

"What time do we fly out?" 

"Too soon for _that,_ unfortunately." Jensen grins, slinging his arm around Misha's neck. "Come on," he starts. The two of them begin walking back where they'd come from, to say their temporary goodbyes, when… 

"Lovebirds!" A wild Padalecki appears, trotting towards them. Both men in his sights roll their eyes in unison. "Come on, y'all, Dick wants a picture." 

"He wants a what?" Jensen asks, the snort is barely audible.

"He wants a picture of us four before we leave."

"Wait," Jensen stops. Misha stops with him. "You said, Dick wants a what?" 

Jared sighs. "A picture Jensen. A PICTURE. You alright, dude?"

"So…" He smirks. Misha grins. "Dick wants a pic?" 

"Yes! Dick wants a pic-- "

"He wants a what pic?" 

Misha snorts this time. Jared's face is priceless as realization dawned on him."

"A Dick pi-- oh, fuck you, man, _har har!"_ Jared stops, sudden confusion clouding his boyish features. "Wait, why the fuck didn't _I_ think of that? Aren't I supposed to be the immature one?" 

"Yeah!" Misha half-yells, "Jared's the only one who talks about dick pics around here." 

"Misha, I swear to God…" Jared's nostrils flair in mock irritation, before turning away from them. "Hurry up and finish making out, or whatever. I'll see y'all over there."

"Wait! I thought Rich said he had to finish up here and hurry up and pack, or something?" 

"He does! Pete's taking it!" Jared calls over his shoulder. 

"Well, all right." Jensen turns to Misha, noticing his expression's gone a little dark again, he leans over and kisses his nose. Pulling back, mouth curling into a sly grin, he puts on his best (or worst, whichever works) British accent. "Buck up, old chap! It's dick pick time!" 

Misha laughs. _Mission accomplished._ "God, I hate you so much." 

Jensen's only response is to smile showing all of his teeth. 

***

_Wednesday, March 11th 2020_

"Come on, Misha, answer the goddamn phone," Jensen grumbles quietly to himself as he listens to Misha's cell ring for the _umpteenth_ time. Okay, so it's only been about three times in the past hour, but he's not picking up, and Jensen _needs to talk to the man!_

"Hey all you cool cats and kittens, it's Misha! Oh, uh, M-Misha Collins. I hope that's who you meant to call…" 

"Ugh!" Jensen groans, listening to Misha's ridiculously long voicemail message _again_ , patience definitely _not_ one of his virtues today. 

"...if it isn't, well, maybe we can talk sometime anyway? Everyone knows I love to talk!" 

"That's no shit," Jensen grumbles again, drumming his fingers on his desk.

"...If I _am_ who you meant to call, just wait a couple more seconds… more like 5.7 seconds because I'm still talking," Jensen hears Misha's chuckle, and rolls his eyes, but smiles in spite of himself, "when you hear this sound… BEEP… just start talking after that! Chat soon. Bye!"

"Dmitri," Jensen says flatly, "I. Need. To. Talk. To. You," he grits his teeth, "Call. Me. Back!" He walks back to the living room of his apartment in Vancouver, plops down on the sofa, and slams his phone down on the cushion next to him. He can't even necessarily pinpoint why he's so irritable. Well, he _can,_ but he's trying incredibly hard not to think about that. He's already talked to Dee, told her he'd be coming home in a couple days… until further notice, and he's positive Misha already knows, but he hasn't talked to the man since _he_ got the phone call a couple hours ago, and he just really _needs_ to hear his voice. 

He jumps a little when he hears his phone buzz and vibrate next to him. "Finally," he half yells when he sees Misha's name brightly on his screen. Still, he can't help but answer as cheerily as he usually does when this particular pain in the ass calls. "Heyyyyy!"

"Where's the fucking fire, Ackles? I had a phone call with Dabb, got off of that, then went to talk to Vick about everything going on, and of _course_ the kids needed to discuss 'The Adventures of West and Maison' for half an hour… I come back to my phone, and you're blowing it up. I love you, but what the fuck," Misha rambles. 

"Oh," Jensen's tone is sheepish, feeling suddenly like an admonished child, "so you already know." It wasn't a question. He knew Misha already knew. He really didn't have a _good_ excuse for blowing up Misha's phone, but he was going with this. 

"What? Of _course,_ I know, Jensen! Contrary to popular belief, I'm _actually_ one of the leads of this little TV show… you may have heard of it? Been on for fifteen years? Albeit _I_ haven't been on it as long as _some_ people, but still." 

_Whoa. Shit._ Apparently this is getting to Misha just as much as it's getting to him. At least he hopes that's what this is. 

Jensen suddenly finds himself trying to calm and soothe, when he actually feels like a ticking time bomb. "Mish," he starts, voice low and methodical, "that's not what I meant. I… knew you had to have known, I just," he sighs into the phone, "I needed to hear your voice. The real one. Talking back to me. I'm sorry."

"Oh." Silence. And then, _"Shit_ , Jens, I'm sorry! Fuck, I dunno what's going on anymore. This fucking virus is shutting down everything--"

"I know."

"... We're probably gonna have to homeschool these monsters--"

"I know, us too."

"I dunno what this means for the show… people are probably gonna die in the _thousands_ or more… the president of the United States is a piece of absolute _shit_ , and… since we'll probably be shut down for _months_ , that means conventions will shut down, so…"

"I know."

"We're not gonna see each other. For how long?"

Jensen sighs long and hard. _There it is_. "I don't know, Mish."

"How long, Jensen?!" 

"Babe, breathe. Can you, I dunno, meditate or… something?" He hears Misha growl on the other end and, while he would normally very much like that, this is not _that_ kind of growl. "Okay, bad timing," he says, as low and calm as possible. "Mish? Are you breathing?" 

"Yes, I'm fucking breathing." 

Jensen sighs again. "We don't shut down completely, officially, until Friday. The crew has to get everything cleaned up and done tomorrow. We've only film one day of nineteen, so we _can't_ film anymore - right now, anyway - and I, _fuck_ , I need to see you."

"I need to see you too," Misha breathes into the phone. It sets Jensen's body on fire. 

"You're in Bellingham." Again, not a question. "Come here. Tomorrow. Stay with me all night. Please?" 

There's silence on the other end for a brief moment before--

"Consider me packing," is Misha's hasty reply.

If Jensen wasn't already sitting down, he'd collapse from relief. "Thank fuck," he murmurs, "see you then. Get your ass here as early as possible." 

***

_Thursday, March 12th 2020_

If Jensen doesn't stop his feet from pacing the floor of his apartment, there's going to be no carpet left. But of course, he's not impatient or anything. Misha should've been here twenty minutes ago, but again… Vancouver traffic, there may have been a delay of when he _said_ he was leaving - kids can be unpredictable - a number of things could've happened… the man could've had to stop to pee… but _still._

_Settle the fuck down, Ackles._

When he hears the knock at his door, he's flinging it open before his brain even has a chance to catch up to what his body's doing. Making sure it's actually Misha, "it's about fucking time," is all he says before grabbing Misha's overnight bag, tossing it to the side - (much to the shock of one, Misha Collins, who let's out a squeaky, " wha-?") - fisting the front of the man's shirt, and crashing their lips together, all before kicking the door shut, and shoving him against it. 

_"Mmph,_ Jensh… H--ewo… Ta... woo… too," Misha tries to say around tongue and lips. Misha puts both palms on Jensen's face and pushes back gently, separating their lips. "Holy shit, Jens, you gonna buy me lunch first?" He chuckles, blue eyes shining brightly, breaths coming a little quicker.

"M'sorry, Mish," Jensen murmurs, leaning in to rest his forehead against Misha's, "I just… _fuck_ , I miss you." Forest green eyes misty from a number of emotions. 

"Oh hell no." Misha slips out from in front of him, maneuvering to stand on his own and lay down the law. "We are _not_ doing that right now. Not yet. Understand?"

Jensen goes weak in the knees at the sight of Misha's one raised eyebrow. "Yes, sir."

Misha grins. "Good boy. Now, first… lunch? Takeout? Or are we cooking?" _Still with the fucking eyebrow._

Jensen licks his lips. "As much as I love to watch _you_ cook," he drags his eyes down and back up the length of Misha's body, watching as his counterpart smirks. _This asshole knows what he's doing._ "I'm actually gonna make _you_ lunch. We can get takeout tonight. I don't wanna waste a single moment on our las-- uh, tonight." 

"Jensen," Misha's face drops. He walks over to Jensen and cups his cheek. "It's not our last night together ever. _Please,"_ he pleads. 

Jensen sighs. "Okay," he replies, just before pulling Misha in for a feverish kiss, teeth grazing Misha's lips as he pulls away. Misha palms his ass in return. 

"I'm starving." Mr. Blue Eyes grins and licks his lips. Jensen's eyes shift directly to the small tongue tease. "What are you making me, Chef Ackles?" 

Jensen thinks for a moment. "Hmm, I was thinking of making some B-K-T-A's." He smiles at the perplexed look flitting across Misha's face, before they both start ticking off ingredients together. 

"Bacon, Kale, Tomato, Avocado."

"Oh my god," Misha gasps. "Toasted bread?" Jensen nods, wiggling his eyebrows. "I fucking love you so much," he nearly moans. "Wait, _you_ have kale?" 

"Oh shut up," Jensen mock-chides, reluctantly pulling away from him to walk towards the kitchen. "You know I like kale, I just have to pretend I hate it for the general public. Gotta uphold Dean's reputation." 

"Okay, tough guy, you can make me lunch," Misha replies, "but… on one condition." Jensen turns around, brows raised, interested piqued. He's not sure about the devilish flash of Misha's eyes. 

"You wear the apron I got you for your birthday… and _only_ the apron I got you for your birthday." 

Jensen swallows, feeling his face flush red. "Mish, no, come _on,_ man," he whines, "that's silly." 

"First of all," Misha raises his finger, "how dare you call my well thought out and personal gift to you 'silly,' and secondly, why? Because it says, 'Mr. Good Lookin' is Cookin'? Because I happen to agree with that sentiment, and feel it was the _most_ appropriate gift." The man actually huffs _._

Jensen laughs. "Okay fine! But I have a counter to your condition." Misha tosses his hand out in a "let's hear it" gesture. "I will wear your ridiculous apron… and… my grizzly bear underwear." Misha groans and spins away from him. "Come on, Mish!" Jensen rushes to make his case. "For old times sake?! Don't act like you didn't like them. _I_ know what you did to me later that night _because_ of them." He raises his eyebrows, challenging Misha to dispute this very obvious fact. 

"That's a fair point." Misha pinches his own chin between his thumb and forefinger, arms crossed, eyes boring into Jensen's crotch area, and Jensen swears there has to be lasers coming out of them, because he can _feel_ it. Finally, Misha sighs, resigned. "Okay, I'll allow it." 

~

Jensen's not sure how the sandwiches even got made, let alone eventually eaten - _they were fucking delicious if he doesn't say so himself_ \- because they spent nearly the entire time cry-laughing, reminiscing about that time in Italy, and the fact that Jensen "dropped trou" in front of the world, to show Misha his bear-covered dick. _Maybe a little too much apple juice that day._ He regrets nothing. 

Sadly, the "underbear" doesn't last through the making of lunch. Namely because Misha chooses to sneak up behind Jensen while he's tending to the bacon, slip his long fingers beneath the front waistband of said underwear, and jerk him off until he collapses with a breathy, _"oh fuck,"_ against Misha, coming all over his hand, _and_ the poor bear. It's a miracle he's able to hold onto the tongs. Luckily, no bacon, kale, tomatoes or avocados are harmed during Misha's attack. It's an averted disaster, very _very_ much worth it. 

~

They spend the day lounging, binge watching The Great British Bake Off - arguing about which one was the best, cuddling on the sofa - which turns from G-rated to R-rated to NSFW on several occasions, talking about everything from kids, to Gish items - Jensen blanches at the thought of what edible-art item Misha may turn him into this year, to politics - Misha says he's interested in some possible Zoom sessions with politicians, if they have to quarantine for long. Jensen's chest nearly crushes in on itself at the thought, but he ignores it, and tells Misha he _really_ wants to help, if he conducts them. 

Before either of them even realizes it, the sun is setting, and their stomachs are growling again. It's Misha's growling stomach, actually, that wakes Jensen from an hour long nap, wherein he swears he just closed his eyes a few seconds earlier. He finds himself half leaning, half lying against one end of the sofa, Misha's back against his chest, body positioned comfortably between his bow legs. The dark tendrils from his boyfriend's head - cradled in his shoulder - are tickling his neck, and his hand is splayed across Misha's belly. It's nice, but he's somewhat pinned; he has to pee, and he's suddenly fucking starving. 

"Mish," he croaks out. He clears his throat and nudges the limp, softly snoring form on top of him. "Mish," he tries again.

"Mmm?" Misha sucks in a breath, adjusts a little, and presses against Jensen's bladder. 

"Baby, you gotta get up. I have to pee. And I'm starving." 

"Mmm," Misha says again, moving slowly to sit. Jensen maneuvers his leg around the other man. Misha scrubs his hands over his face with a groan. "What time is it?" He yawns. 

"I dunno. Seven-ish?" Jensen offers. 

"In the _morning?"_ Misha's eyes go wide. Jensen chuckles. 

"Naw, evening, dude. Evening." 

"Christ," Misha replies. "How long were we asleep?" He yawns again. 

"Only about an hour." He stands up, stretching, his body cracking and popping back into place. "I'm gonna hit the bathroom. You think about what you want to eat." He glances behind him as he walks away. 

"I'm pretty sure I'm already looking at it," Misha says, tone dangerously dipping to near Castiel-level. Jensen snorts. 

"Think of anything?" Jensen asks after returning from the bathroom. 

"Hmm… mm-mm," Misha says. _This is the guy who loves to talk_. "You pick." 

Jensen pulls out his phone, scrolling through the restaurants offering takeout. "Feel like anything in particular?" He names off various restaurants, all different ethnicities of food, all met with a sound of disdain from Misha. Sensing a shift in mood from their short nap, one Jensen does not like the sound of, he puts on his twangiest possible Texas accent. "How 'bout good ole all uhmer'can?" 

Misha grins. "Better be careful, tough guy. Or I'll make you wear a cowboy hat to bed tonight." 

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Mish."

"Pacific Northwest," Misha blurts out. 

Jensen squints. "Uh, yeah? That's pretty much where we are, man." 

"No, I mean, we're here, so let's eat Pacific Northwest food. Y'know, as a commemoration." Sadness flashes across his eyes for a brief moment, and Jensen feels his chest tighten. 

"Sure, Babe," he smiles softly before continuing, "how about Forage? It's definitely Pacific Northwestern, and it's really good." 

"I think it's a little late for us to go out and forage for food, Dean," Misha says, going full Castiel, weird-ass angel of the Lord, complete with the voice. 

Jensen laughs, reaching over to kiss his ridiculous man. "Don't ever stop doing that," he says, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. Misha just nods and smiles. Jensen quickly changes the subject. "Let's look at the menu." 

They proceed to do just that, scouring it. Jensen knows Misha's most likely looking for the craziest shit he can find, and it makes him warm inside. "Halibut," Misha finally says. "That sounds good." 

"Okay but you have to say the whole thing… out loud." 

Misha huffs. "Just order me the Halibut, you dick." He grins, though, in spite of himself. 

"Not until you say it," Jensen replies defiantly. 

"You're maturity astounds me," Misha deadpans. Jensen's only response is to throw Misha his best 'blue steel,' green eyes as smoldering as he can get them. "Oh for fuck sake, fine!" Misha sighs. "I'll have the Halibut cheeks." 

"So… you're saying you want the Hali-butt cheeks… you want to eat Hali-butt cheeks for dinner?" He watches Misha's mouth twitch, as the man tries and fails not to laugh. 

"Who are you?" Misha shakes his head. “Did you and Jared switch bodies? It's 2020. It would make sense." Jensen guffaws at that. "I think we have enough butt cheeks here, tonight love, but I'll take the Halibut, yes. What are you having?" 

"Definitely not butt cheeks," he snorts. 

"Don't even tell me. I already know what you're having." He points at the salmon without hesitation. 

"Aww, babe," Jensen coos, "you know me so well." He follows that up with a wink and finger guns. 

"Gonna be a fishy night," Misha mutters playfully. 

Jensen laughs out loud. "Don't worry, Mish. We have toothpaste." Another wink adorns his painfully gorgeous features. Misha winks back, which quickly turns into a debate about how Misha does _not_ , according to Jensen, wink properly. 

Dinner finally arrives, and is obliterated - probably a little too quickly if their aching stomachs have anything to say about it after - but nonetheless, it was _fucking delicious._ Although... not quite as delicious as Misha's kisses, after they'd properly brushed the fish out of their teeth, Jensen decides. 

They find themselves lounging once again, moonlight peering through long, slender windows. This time, they listen to music which seems to set the mood just right. A little mixture of Amos Lee, Kaleo, and Hozier make the lazy caresses, languid, lingering kisses, soft sighs, and barely there moans feel like their bodies are singing on their own. Misha must notice the guitar in the corner of the room because he sits up a little and turns. Liquid blues eyes peer into green, lids heavy. The love Jensen sees there is enough to take his breath away. 

"Mmm, sing to me, Jens," Misha coos, albeit there's a little whine in his tone as well. 

_"Mish,"_ Jensen's reply, however, is full of whine, very little coo. Misha bats his eyelashes. "You know that doesn't work on me." Misha raises one eyebrow. _Fuck._ "Okay, fine. That works. I hate you, you know that, right?"

"No you don't." 

"Fine, I don't," Jensen chuckles, "I hate loving you, how's that?" 

Misha nods. "That's fair." Hands reach for his face, lips connect with his, tongues lave, teeth lightly scrape, and Jensen feels like flying. "Now, sing me a song, peasant." _Smug bastard._

For a moment, Jensen's unsure if he can even talk, let alone sing, but he clears his throat. Finding his voice, he finally replies, "Yes, your holy hotness. Whaddya wanna hear?" 

"From you?" A positively devilish look flashes in his eyes. "Literally anything. You pick. Seduce me." 

Jensen stands, dramatically bows. "I shall do my best, my love." He walks over to his guitar, picks it up, and returns to sit next to Misha on the sofa. Initially strumming some random chords, just playing around for a moment, he thinks of a song, one that he thinks _might_ invoke the seduction Misha asked for. He may deny this shit in general, but he knows _exactly_ what he's doing. 

Jensen smirks to himself, then begins to play the starting chords of a song from one of his favorites. He glances at Misha when he begins to whistle, noticing his mouth split into a wide grin. Jensen starts to sing, eyes closed, voice growly, he feels Misha's eyes burning a hole in him. 

_"Well they thought they were made for each other,_

_Only thinking of one another,_

_Never thinking just for one second,_

_She would take a different attraction,_

_We don't want that_

_We don't want that_

_We don't want that_

_Oh no_

_We don't want that_

_We don't want that_

_We don't want that_

_Oh no_

_I can't go on without you_

_I can't go on without you_

_Can't go on without you, yeah_

_I can't go on without you, oh_

_So, what's the point of breaking my sweet heart?_

_She wanted me to let down my guard_

_Well, you know what they say, it's better that way_

_So, so you better hush and walk away…"_

Jensen finishes up the rest of the song and sets his guitar off to the side. He'd glanced at Misha off and on throughout the song, so he can't quite understand why he didn't notice, until now, blue eyes swimming in unshed tears, and teeth digging into Misha's bottom lip. That's… not the reaction he was expecting, though he doesn't have to wait long.

"Hey," he says softly, placing his hand on a firm, denim clad thigh. "Mish?"

"I'm fine," Misha croaks out, "I just…" he shakes his head, "how do you _always_ make me cry when you sing?"

"I'd probably cry too," Jensen says. A little self-deprecating humor never hurt anyone. 

"Oh shut the fuck up. You know what I mean." Misha huffs out a laugh. "See, this is why I can rarely go to SNS when you sing! Because I'd bawl my fucking eyes out!" 

Jensen sees a flash of… _something_ cross Misha's features before it's gone as quickly as it came, and the next thing he knows, Misha is straddling him on the sofa. _"Oomph,"_ is the first sound to be forced out of Jensen's chest. The second, much more voluntary sound is, "Misha, what the _fuck,_ your hips!" His hands immediately fly to both hips, to - he doesn't know - keep them in place? 

"Shut the fuck up about my hips," Misha says calmly, appearing to be in _no_ pain whatsoever. Instead, his body presses even harder against Jensen's, eliciting a small whimper out of the younger man, and he leans in, capturing Jensen's bottom lip between his teeth. Jensen moans, naturally. "That was fucking hot… and _you're_ fucking hot… and I want you." 

_Okay, so we're not beating around the bush, so to speak. Duly noted._

"Well, you did say to seduce you." 

"You accomplished your task, peasant." Misha grinds into him, and _fuck_ , if Jensen wasn't already half hard the moment Misha scrambled on top of him, he most _certainly_ was now. 

"Mmmm," Jensen's replies, verdite eyes rolling to the back of his skull as Misha's lips linger along his throat. "Mish," he whispers, lifting his head to meet cobalt blue turned midnight sapphire… dark and wanton. Misha licks his lips and dives back in, groaning into Jensen's mouth as the fuse is lit. 

Misha's tongue begs for permission, and Jensen concedes, licking into Misha's mouth, feeling him harden against him as seconds pass. Jensen's hands slide gingerly up Misha's hips, beneath the hem of his t-shirt, until he reaches bare skin, fingers splay and knead. He feels goosebumps instantly rise where his hands caress, Misha hissing in response, his own fingers curled in Jensen's hair. 

"Bed," Jensen breathes, when they both come up for air. 

"Bed," Misha acquiesces. 

Jensen tries to help Misha off of him as gently as possible, but Misha - stubborn ass that he is - is having none of it. Instead, _he_ pulls Jensen off the sofa and up against him, wrapping firm arms around the freckled man, hands sliding down stealthily to grip and knead Jensen's ass. Jensen bucks into him, _he can't fucking help it._ Misha grins. 

"Bed, baby," Jensen growls, "now." 

"Oh?" Misha's eyebrows raise. "Look who's in charge now." 

"Yeah," Jensen says, his tone dark and dangerous, "who's the peasant now? Go." He points in the direction of the bedroom they've spent plenty of nights in, and will spend one more… he tries not to think about that. Instead he lets Misha lead the way, smacking his ass as he passes, reveling in the yelp it elicits.

They make it there, barely, after two or three stops to press one another against a wall or a door, ravage the shit out of lips, hair, and clothes, strewn haphazardly along the way - Jensen's shirt here, Misha's there, Misha's jeans unbuttoned, Jensen's lounge pants wrecked and hanging demonstrably low on his hips. They stop… just in front of the bed. Jensen leans in to capture Misha's lips with his, softly this time. The older man's masterful facade fades away as he pulls back and looks at Jensen. 

"What's the matter, baby," Jensen whispers. 

"I… " Misha's face twists a little, eyes liquid pools again, "figured that was pretty obvious." 

"Hey," Jensen coos, "come're." He pulls him in again, hugging him tightly, trying to even out his own breathing. "We've got all night, my Mish, and I'm gonna take care of you, I promise."

"That's good," Misha's voice breaks as he grips him tighter, "'cause I'm gonna need you to."

"Well then it's doubly good," Jensen says, "because _goddamn_ if I'm not gonna need you, too." He sighs, pulling back to look at the man for whom he'd lay down his fucking life. "No more of this shit until the sun comes up, capice?" 

"I love you, you asshole," Misha whispers. 

"Love you more, shithead." 

Jensen turns them, dipping his head, lips lightly suckling at Misha's neck, and nudges until his boyfriend's legs are against the bed. He pushes gently, guiding Misha to sit, then kneels down between his legs. Jensen let's his lips glide from one exposed collar bone to the next, his tongue dipping out occasionally to taste the salty skin there. 

Misha lets out a low, rumbling moan when Jensen's tongue laves his chest, circling his nipples, pulling one, then the other gently between his teeth. Misha's fingers glide through Jensen's hair, blunt nails scraping lightly along his scalp. It feels heavenly, for lack of a better term, fueling Jensen onward. His own palms press against Misha's thighs, fingers doing their best to caress through the thick material. _Something that will need to be rectified_ _soon,_ he thinks. He hears Misha's breaths increase, feels his belly quiver, his chest heave as his lips descend, leaving sloppily placed, wet kisses in his wake. Misha's fingers knead deeper. When he reaches the open fly of Misha's jeans, he licks, kissing once more for good measure before pushing his body up the other man's until Misha is forced to lie back on the bed. Simultaneously, Misha's hands slide down, thumbs _accidentally_ hooking in the waistband of Jensen's pants, effectively pushing them down just past his ass. Jensen doesn't mind at all. 

He hovers over Misha, breaths punching out of him as he stares into a deep, deep ocean of blue, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, the slope of his nose. He records everything his eyes take note of, not missing an inch of the stunning face beneath him. One would think, as many times as he's been in this very position, things would become mundane, boring… but it's never been that way between them. Every encounter is an adventure; every kiss a brand new explosion on the fourth of July; every touch sends him reeling. It never gets old.

He rears up a little, hands aching to rid Misha of the barrier between them, he tugs on the waist of the man's jeans. "Lift, baby," he instructs. Misha immediately complies, jeans and briefs gone as hastily as Jensen can manage. He finishes the job Misha had started on his own fabric prison, discarding all of it without a second thought, aching to feel Misha's skin against his own. The feeling is reciprocated, he notes, as Misha reaches for him, left hand grappling for Jensen's arm, right hand ghosting along his aching fucking erection. 

_"Fuck,"_ Jensen hisses, bucking into it, and collapsing over Misha again. "Warn a guy, yeah?" he breathes, leaning down into a deep, fiery kiss. 

Misha grins when the kiss breaks. "But my favorite part is _not_ warning you." 

"Mmhmm, I know," Jensen replies sarcastically. Both men groan when he grinds his cock into Misha's, giving Jensen the satisfaction of saying, 'payback's a bitch,' without having to _say_ it. Instead, he simply instructs his lover to scoot further onto the bed. He needs a lot more room on the canvas for this masterpiece. 

Once the man beneath him is in place, Jensen takes over, worshipping every inch of Misha's body. The little whimpers, Jensen's name whispered with Misha's sighs, Misha's hands reaching to touch him, all spurring Jensen on. He finally settles low between Misha's parted legs, licking a stripe from base to head of the writhing man's cock, tasting the precum already gathered there before swallowing him down. 

_"Shit… baby,"_ Misha groans, hands flying to Jensen's head as he hollows his cheeks, sucking, his tongue pressing against the sensitive vein all the way up. He brings Misha to the brink before stopping suddenly, crawling back up his naked form and flattening himself against him. His hands slide up Misha's arms to the other man's. Curling his fingers in Misha's, he stares down at him. Misha squirms just a little under his intense gaze. 

"I love you, my Mishka. And we're gonna be okay," he says softly, "We'll be alright." 

"Fuck you, Jensen," Misha huffs, a little bit of humor laced with pain, "you said 'none of that until the sun comes up,' remember?" 

"You're right. I'm sorry," Jensen says, leaning down to kiss his nose. He pistons his hips just right and Misha keens. 

_"God… Jens…"_ he pants. "I want you…" he kisses Jensen with enough fervor to make the Texan's toes curl, his own cock aching for those hips to piston again. "... inside me." 

Jensen rears back just a little to look at him intensely. "You do?" His breath picks up at the thought. This was… let's just say, _not_ the norm. Misha nods in response. Of _course_ he wants to give Misha what he wants, but that whole, _taking care of him thing,_ quickly admonishes him. "But your hi--"

"If you say another _fucking_ word about my hips…" Misha interrupts. Jensen gives him a pleading look, and Misha sighs. "Jens," he finally says softly, laying the full force of those blue eyes on him, "I'm okay. I promise you. I want this. I _need_ this."

"Okay," Jensen says, moving his hips again, grinding, but slowly this time, smiling wryly as he watches Misha's eyes screw shut, feels blunt nails scraping his shoulders, and Misha's head dig into the pillow. Jensen starts with kisses again, down the length of Misha's torso, some sloppy and wet, some deep, suckling bruises. He reaches the apex of hips and thighs, taking extra time there, gently kneading, leaving featherlight kisses on each hip bone, Misha writhing beneath him. He ignores the weeping erection, though it twitches as he passes it by, to give attention to Misha's inner thighs, nibbling and kissing, reveling in Misha's whispered curses and moans of his name. 

He gently spreads Misha's legs apart further, pressing up on the underside of the man's thighs until his feet are flat on the mattress. He spreads Misha's ass cheeks and blows lightly, just to tease. Misha squirms on the bed. Jensen leans in, kissing each cheek before smirking and saying, "Don't ever say I don't kiss your ass, Mish," then running his tongue along puckered skin, pressing the tip just inside. 

_"Fuck... Jensen... please!"_ Misha begs, bucking into the air, sounding fucking wrecked. Jensen grins. _God,_ he loves seeing Misha like this, writhing and panting, and absolute putty in his hands. 

Jensen stops that torture for torture of a different kind, lubing his fingers and opening Misha up as painstakingly slowly as he can. By the time Jensen's sliding into him, Misha's breaths are undeniably ragged, and now, he already _looks_ wrecked. 

It's all the sunsets and sunrises combined. It's a double rainbow after a storm.

 _It's fucking beautiful._

Jensen shushes him softly, leaning over for a slow, deep kiss, licking into Misha's mouth, thrusting as slow as he's kissing. A cacophony of moans and staccatoed breaths, curses and acclamations surround them until Jensen can feel the coiled heat dangerously close to snapping. 

"Jens…" Misha pants, "I'm close… _fuck_ , I'm so close… I need…" he cries out, "I need…"

"Shh, baby," Jensen soothes him, "I've got you, Mish, I've got you." He reaches between them, palming Misha's cock, leaning in as close as he can get. He needs to feel all of this man, and he needs Misha to feel all of _him_. He thrusts fast and quick, scraping his teeth along Misha's jaw, nibbling the bolt, running his lips up to Misha's ear. "Come for me," he whispers. 

Misha's nails dig into Jensen's back as he arches and cries out, pulsing inexorably between them. Jensen's not far behind, his movements still on a low, lamenting groan, Misha's name on his tongue as he comes harder than what seems humanly possible. 

It takes all the energy he can muster to separate himself from his lover's punch drunk expression and make his way to the bathroom, but he does it, returning with a warm cloth. He makes a half-assed effort to clean them both, and Misha's nearly comatose before he finally crawls under the covers with him. He curls his body protectively around the dark haired sleeping beauty, presses his lips to the back of Misha's neck, and falls into a deep, comforting sleep. Traitorous dreams, ones in which he does _not_ have to separate from this pain in the ass he loves so much tomorrow, for who the fuck knows how long, fill his head. 

***

_Friday, March 13th 2020_

The sun, Jensen's decided, is his arch fucking nemesis. Nevermind the state of the world right now, it's this ball of fire in the sky, making every effort to penetrate his eyelids with goddamn laser precision. Doing it's very best to rip him from his peaceful dreams of him, Dee, Misha, Vicki, and all the kids living together in some utopian commune. It was delightful, albeit all those kids together could, more than likely, turn into a horror show pretty fucking quick. 

_Goddamn it._ Lasers. Literal lasers directly in his eyes. 

Jensen squints, eyes blinking open just enough for the light to seep in and scorch him. "Fuck," he grumbles, turning his body around and _away_ from the obviously evil, penetrating force. He blinks a few more times, finally able to open his eyes enough to see the still sleeping form of his beloved, lashes fanning his cheeks, peaceful expression adorning his flawless features, mouth slightly open, breaths calm and even. _Jesus, he's beautiful,_ he thinks. "Lucky bastard," he murmurs with a lazy grin, "you got me blocking the lasers from hell." 

"Mmm?" Is Misha's only response before he's back to even breaths and barely there snores. 

Jensen snuggles in closer, nudging his leg between Misha's, kissing the other man's forehead and brushing his nose. He grins when Misha stirs, pulling Jensen suffocatingly closer - but he's not complaining - with a satisfying sigh. He drifts off again, his disdain at the sun diminishing as he breathes in, and thinks about nothing but the man he's cocooned with. 

He's awakened a short time later, _this_ time not by the relentless lasers of the sun, but by little tickles on his chin, his forehead, his nose, and finally his mouth. Wetness licks at his sealed lips, and he opens his eyes, a bit startled at first by the bright, sparkling blue eyes staring back at him. It only takes a second before the smile is spreading across his cheeks. 

"Mmm," he replies sleepily, "this is better than the sun."

"So are you, green-eyed grasshopper," Misha replies, his voice still thick with sleep. He pulls the white comforter up and over the both of them, rolls Jensen into his back, scrambling on top of him before the younger man can even react. 

"Good morning to you too," Jensen chuckles. Misha presses his naked body into him further, Cheshire cat grin adorning his face. Jensen groans, morning wood going _nowhere_ anytime soon. "This is all I need for breakfast." 

Misha licks into his mouth, all tongue, and teeth, and heat. Pulling back, he smirks. "We can do that, too. I'll cook you breakfast after…" he trails off, diving back in for more searing kisses, hips undulating slow and languid, and Jensen's already two seconds from combusting. He reaches for Misha's hips, stilling them as he breathes slow and steady, well, as steady as humanly possible at the moment. 

"Baby, you're gonna make me come too fast," Jensen breathes, "slow _down…_ please." 

"This is not fast," Misha smirks. He jerks his hips a couple times, laughing evilly when Jensen hisses and digs his fingers into Misha's flesh. _"That's_ fast." 

Technically, the man's not wrong, but _fuck._

"Just…" Jensen licks his lips. Misha's gaze averts to them. "Let me get my bearings," he says, clenching his jaw to do just that. Misha adjusts so that he's not directly in contact with Jensen's midsection, leaning down to suck on the cords of his neck. Jensen's cock twitches. _Jesus fucking Christ._

"You want me to fuck you slow this morning, love?" Misha coos in his ear. Jensen whimpers, nodding his head vehemently _yes._

The dark haired heathen doesn't say another word. Instead, he goes to work, nibbling, kissing, and sucking down Jensen's chest. He avoids areas he knows will set the Texan off, and Jensen's unsure if he's grateful or frustrated as fuck. He trails kisses down Jensen's right arm, down to his fingers, sucking each one into his mouth, then moving across to the other. Misha kisses down his chest, to his belly, down to his legs - again, avoiding where Jensen's now silently begging him to be the most. 

He preps Jensen with the precision of a master - Jensen can tell by the way Misha responds to every sound, hitch of breath and moan he makes, that he's taking in every second of it, committing it to memory, which is such a _Misha_ thing to do - and inches into him excruciatingly slowly. Bottoming out, Misha spreads Jensen's bowlegs wider and leans in, kissing his forehead, his nose, his top lip, then his bottom. Jensen's arms lock around Misha's body, his own trembling, a low groan emanates from his chest as the slow burn begins to scorch from the tips of his toes to the crown of his skull. Misha adjusts just a little, just enough to elicit sparks deep in Jensen's belly with each methodical thrust. 

_"Fuck… fuck… fuck,"_ Jensen whispers, feeling Misha hit that sweet spot over and over until Jensen's nails are scraping across his back. Misha's dexterous lips take purchase on his collarbone, hair tickling Jensen's cheek as he sucks and licks up to the shell of Jensen's ear, soft breaths causing goosebumps all over his heated body. 

"Touch yourself, Jens," Misha coos in his ear. No further instructions are needed. Jensen immediately complies, hand flying to his weeping cock, clamping around it, tugging until pain damn near mixes with pleasure. 

"Such a good boy." The words barely leave Misha's lips before Jensen's vision goes white. Stars burst behind his eyes, supernovas shooting through his entire body, head reared back against the pillow, eyes screwed shut, a whimpering cry bursting from his chest out through his mouth. 

Misha's not far behind. His thrusts stilt and stutter, ultimately stilling as he whispers words of praise through staccatoed breaths. He collapses onto Jensen, the near suffocation welcome as they steady their breathing together through their orgasms. Moments pass without Misha moving a muscle, and Jensen thinks maybe he's fallen asleep, but then the man giggles. It sounds a little off, a little pained, but he can't help but follow suit. Still, he runs soothing palms up and down Misha's back. 

"God, we're such a fucking mess," Misha says finally. 

"Literally or figuratively?" Jensen asks. 

"Both." 

"Well I love our mess," Jensen says, kissing the man's head. 

"Good," comes Misha's quick reply, "let's go make a different mess in the kitchen. 

Jensen's suddenly growling stomach answers for him just in that moment. He nods his head. "Yes sir, Chef Collins." 

They shower quickly, Misha going first then retreating to the kitchen to return the favor from Jensen making him lunch the day before. He doesn't recall the name of the masterpiece scramble Misha makes for them, probably something from his own cookbook, but it's amazing, and his growling belly is adequately satisfied. Companionable silence fills the air between them as they eat, cutesy looks exchanged, neither one of them trying to think about what comes next. Conversations about nothing and everything ensue as breakfast winds down, and they relax together for a little while longer. Jensen mentions needing to pack for his afternoon flight to Austin, and Misha immediately offers to help. Jensen knows the other man is stalling, and he's letting him, because let's be honest, if he could get away with bringing Mish's whole crew with him to Texas, he would. 

Misha grows quiet as the hours inch on, finally getting up to retrieve his bag, and placing it in the foyer. The sadness in his eyes when he asks again what time Jensen flies out is almost too overwhelming to bear. "I figured I'd walk you out," he replies, his voice low, "Clif's on standby, so I'll just buzz him when I get back up here." Misha nods. Jensen watches him swallow. It's nearly fucking audible, and his heart stutters in his chest.

"I'd offer to take you myself, but y'know," he gestures with his hand, "public eye, insurmountable scrutiny and all that." 

Jensen's suddenly and silently cursing _everything._

Far too soon, they're at Misha's car. Bag secured, they stand in silence. Misha fidgets with his keys, Jensen tries to think of something, _anything_ to say to make them both feel better. 

"I don't wanna leave you," Misha finally mumbles, eyes averted away from Jensen's. _As if there's a universe in which Jensen would fucking disagree with him._

Jensen reaches over, fingers under Misha's chin, he lifts his head until liquid blue eyes stare back at him. "Baby, I don't want you to go either," is all he can say before his voice completely cracks. He pulls Misha in for another crushing hug, pulling back just enough to kiss his forehead, lips aching for Misha's until he relents, kissing him softly, yet deeply. "I love you so much, Mish," he breathes, foreheads fused together. 

"I fucking love _you_ so much, Jens," Misha replies, voice wrecked. 

"I promise you, we'll--" 

"I know," Misha interrupts, mouth spreading into a small, tentative grin. "We'll be alright." 

Jensen pulls back at Misha's uncertain tone. "We _will."_ His voice is as stern as he can muster while looking at the man who makes him crumble. 

"I know, Jens," Misha replies, this time with a little more confidence. 

Jensen finally lets him go, smacking his toned ass for good measure, and saying, "Now get the fuck outta here before I handcuff us together and then we're stuck here." 

Misha shrugs, "You don't have handcuffs." Jensen wiggles his eyebrows. Misha gasps. "You _stole_ them from set?" This time, Jensen shrugs in response. Misha continues, "You _ass_ … holding out on me, I see." _There's that eyebrow and playful tone he loves so much._

"We'll get them out next time, babe." Jensen shrugs again, grin splitting his face. 

"You bet your ass we will," Misha chides, blue eyes a little brighter. He grabs Jensen, kissing him feverishly before pulling away and saying, "bye for now, tough guy." 

Jensen laughs, reciprocating, then watching as Misha gets in his car and leaves the parking garage. He stays put for a moment, unable to get his feet moving, just staring after Misha, willing the ache in his chest to subside. Finally, he turns and heads back up to his apartment to call Clif and get home to the other loves of his life. He sighs heavily, saying one last thing to himself as he turns the key in his door. Just as a reminder. Just because he needs to. 

"We'll be alright." 

***

The End (for now)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you sooooooooo much for reading! If you enjoyed it; if you want to yell at me (as long as it's the good yelling, lol), or ya know, cry with me... please hit that kudos button and leave a comment! Sweet Cockles dreams! <3<3 
> 
> PS, the apron is real. You can find it here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/779935386/funny-apron-for-men-mr-good-lookin-is?ga_order=most_relevant&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=mr+good+lookin&ref=sr_gallery-1-1&frs=1  
> (still don't know how to post hyperlinks, lol)


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